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It's night. Normally, Toby would be taking you outside — driving you somewhere a little isolated to go stargazing. But tonight, the sky's far too polluted for you to make out a single star. Either that or they had been too shy to come out tonight.
You suppose the next best thing is to lay with your love and to trace all the freckles on his back. Toby likes to insist that they're ugly. On a nice day, he’ll just say that his spots are nothing special, almost everyone has them. But you beg to differ. To you, they're the prettiest stars you've ever seen. The best part about them? You don't need a telescope just to see their beauty.
He may also be scarred, severe enough for the term “damaged goods” to fit him both literally and figuratively. But Toby's scars? To you, they're no pollution. They just add to, no — they complete the rest of the abstractions on his skin. Like paint on canvas forming the prettiest landscape you’ve ever seen. Like shooting stars dancing across the sky.
“Huh. I think I can see Taurus?” You trace the phage-like pattern above the small of his back. Over and over again. Like you're trying to memorize it. “Well, it's not like a literal bull. But it's pretty damn close to the actual constellation …”
“Funny you say that,” Toby huffs, shifting slightly to crack his shoulder. “Nat once told me I’m a Taurus, w-whatever that muh-means.”
When you can feel him breathing — warm and tense under the delicate touch of your fingertips, you think that this is better than stargazing.
“I don’t know either. I just like stars,” you say matter-of-factly, nimble fingers dancing up to his right shoulder blade. You play connect the dots on his skin once again, tracing a line of freckles that leads to a box-like shape. You go over it a few times to make sure it is what you think it is. “And there’s the big dipper, I think.”
“Mm, well I can sh-show you my big dipper,” Toby jests, and you swear that he's grinning against the pillow.
When he talks all pretty (even though his words aren't the prettiest), you think that this is better than stargazing.
“Oh, shut up,” you scoff and playfully smack him on the shoulder. He may not be able to feel it, but you're gentle with him anyway — because you love him so. He's told you that you're the gentlest thing he's ever experienced, and so you'll live up to that.
“Sorry,” he mumbles. “But, uh, ‘m not lying when I told you th-that I'm absolutely covered in these things. There's a ruh-reason why I prefer it when we do it with the lights off.”
“Doesn't matter,” you assure him, pressing a gentle kiss to the same shoulder you hit. “You don’t have to hide a single thing from me, Toby. I mean, well, you told me you kill people for a living. And I stayed. If you think I would ever hate you or think low of you for the way you look, then you picked the wrong person to be with.”
Toby softly hums in acknowledgement, but he doesn’t respond with anything beyond that. You reckon he’s just processing everything you said.
You don’t demand a word from him. Instead, you wrap an arm around his gaunt form, pulling him close to you.
“Point is,” you murmur against his skin, pressing a gentle kiss on the junction between his shoulder and neck. Multiple times, one for each freckle you see. “that I love you. All of you, whole. I’m not letting anything or anyone, not even yourself, change that.”
It’s the damn truth. All of the world could be laid out in front of your eyes, but you’d still choose him over anyone else. He could confess to you all the horrible things he’s done (well, he has), and you’d still love him.
Toby stirs — not to get away from your touch, but to turn and look you in the eye. You cup his face. He smiles under your touch, and you know it’s genuine when it reaches his eyes.
You smile back while your thumb gently outlines the gash on his left cheek, another feature of his you’ve grown to love. It’s gruesome, it’s not the prettiest, a stark reminder of his ugly habits — but you love it because it’s still a part of him. Like how you still love him despite all the blood on his hands.
“I love you, too,” Toby finally says. When he doesn’t stutter, you know that he means it like a conviction.
That’s all it takes for you to close the gap between the two of you, holding onto him like he’s your lifeline.
When you have him right there in your arms, hiding from all the cruelty this world has thrown at the two of you, you finally know that this is better than stargazing.
And if the walls started caving in right now, you’ll be doing everything to keep Toby safe.